


Touch

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bruises, Denial, Mirrors, Other, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 14:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7056301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His fingers cast murals on her skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't very nice, sorry

She remembers every time that he has touched her.

It's so rare an occurrence – how could she not? She can count the places on her body that his hands have been easily, recall the sensations; his open palm on her skull, his fingers wrapped around her wrists, sometimes pressing flat against her chest or stomach. But it's rare. Rare, rare and precious. The moments never last long, flit past like ghosts; so she has to remember them, because nobody else will.

Today has been one of the better days. She can't remember exactly what she said, but it was the right thing – drew a favourable reaction from him. He's so good at not showing emotions, so cold, but sometimes she's able to crack his mask. When he snaps, exhibits care, he's glorious.

Grell stares herself down in the mirror, daring the reflection to make the first move, and then slowly raises her hand up to cover the sharp hand-shaped bruise that has painted half of her face purple. This is not an attempt to make it disappear; she can almost pretend that he's beside her, has caressed her for once instead of simply striking her and moving off.

She's not crying. She's not crying not because Grell Sutcliff does not cry, but because there is _nothing_ sad about this picture, there is nothing wrong, there is nothing at all to be upset about. She is _H A P P Y!_ She's overjoyed, and the wretched wailing sound that's emerging in hacking, bubbling coughs is not grief and she's reapplying her makeup _frantically_ because it's imperfect, not because it's running, not because she's crying, because she's not crying.

If she were crying, that would imply that he had hurt her on purpose – had had some malicious intention behind the blow. And he _hadn't_. Will would never, not ever want to harm her, never inflict pain upon her to fuel any form of sadism or release any form of anger. He couldn't! He hasn't. The bruises and the marks are not because he hates her. Never, never that. 

William loves her, ~~tolerates her at least~~ \- they were _made_ for one another, made to be together. And okay, maybe, maybe now isn't the right time, maybe he needs more than a century to get used to the idea of being with her, maybe he's scared there'll be repercussions or that she won't be loyal or that expressing _happiness_ will damn him to _Hell_ , but it is there, buried beneath his dead dead eyes. It is there. And if the only way he can express it is through occasional ~~violence~~ touch that's okay. She's lucky to have him. She's lucky to have such a strong ~~lover~~ ~~friend~~ ~~abuser~~ ~~partner~~ _superior_ , lucky that they've never drifted apart, lucky that she still works with him, sometimes. Lucky that he still looks at her, sometimes.

Grell considers herself good with men. She is. Over the decades she's honed her ability to coax delight from anyone who wants her ~~body~~ company; whether they lie with her to feel wanted or powerful or merely alive doesn't matter. They _enjoy_ her, and she enjoys the taste of their pleasure. It isn't love, but doesn't have to be. Never has had to be. Simple reassurance that men are carnal beings, yes, changeable from disgusted to wanting depending on the length of a skirt. With the exception of the only one that she actually wants – he's never taken kindly to her preferred sense of dress. Maybe he's gay. She's not sure. Usually that doesn't matter. Usually men don't care. She wonders blithely whether William would be gratified or horrified that he's an exception. 

Of course, in another sense of the word, he's straight, isn't he? Straight enough not to merely live by the line but to embody it. Straight enough that maybe he doesn't want to love a fallen woman, someone ~~unclean~~ used, impure, ~~filthy~~ , someone that he sees perhaps as little more than the office ~~whore~~ nuisance, because she's a liability, ~~whore, twisted unclean carnal creature, sordid vile repulsive whore whore whore _whore whore whore whore_ \- ~~

Clawing at the flesh of her own arms in place of self-harm is a defensive measure adopted with the realisation that knives may scar but fingernails don't. She doesn't break the skin, of course, but the pain is there and the pain is what she needs because if she hurts outside she doesn't hurt inside because her body knows to take care of itself in a way that her mind never has quite mastered. It's sore. It draws her back to her reality, back to the weeping, flushed face of the woman in the mirror, back to some level of calm. She's calm. The scratches slow; her hands still. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay. 

She's okay. 

The woman in the mirror isn't. She's still blotchy, still all streamy-eyed and downward curled-lipped. But Grell has comforted her for long enough that she doesn't even need too think about it anymore; she dabs at her own eyes, gentle now, and her reflection follows the example carefully. Grell cleans herself, clears herself, makes her face a new canvas on which to paint some other beauty, and the beauty in the mirror does the same. They work in tandem, obviously, and Grell murmurs reassurances to her poor degraded counterpart. _You'll be okay. Things will get better. You are strong. You are beautiful. You deserve better. Don't fear. Keep going; always keep going. They love you. He loves you. I love you._ She doubts that glass conducts sounds so well, but it reflects her own voice back, and she can take some comfort in her own words. The woman in the mirror seems to be on the mend. Grell always wants to hug her, cradle her close in order to convey a physical comfort that requires no words – because God knows nobody else will – but obviously can't. 

The red lines on her arms are gone. The tears, the streaks, the mourning cries – all gone. Her own reflection seems as perfect as time allows; her own heart has stilled. All that remains is the bruise across her face, vivid, ugly, a reminder to all of his claim upon her skin. 


End file.
